He then took my hand. I felt an instinctive horror at the touch of his, for it was flabby, and there was no life or sincerity in its grasp. I quickly took mine away and looked at him. He was plain, with a red face, and eyes that avoided one’s gaze. As I was going away I met Coquelin, who, hearing I was there, had waited to see me. He had made his début a year before with great success. “Well, it’s settled, then?” he said gayly. I showed him the engagement and shook hands with him. I went quickly down the stairs, and just as I was leaving the theater, found myself in the midst of a group in the doorway. “Are you satisfied?” asked a gentle voice, which I recognized as M. Doucet’s. “Oh, yes, monsieur, thank you so much,” I answered. “But my dear child, I have nothing to do with it,” he said. “Your competition was not at all good, but nevertheless we count on you,” put in M. Régnier, and then turning to Camille Doucet he asked: “What do you think, your Excellency?” “I think that this child will be a very great _artiste_,” he replied. There was silence for a moment. “Well, you have got a turnout!” exclaimed Beauvallet rudely. He was the first tragedian of the Comédie, and the worst-bred man in France or anywhere else. “This turnout belongs to mademoiselle’s aunt,” remarked Camille Doucet, shaking hands with me gently. “Oh, well, I would much rather it belonged to her than to me,” answered the tragedian. I then stepped into the carriage which had caused such a sensation at the theater, and drove away. On reaching home I took the engagement to my mother. She signed it without reading it, and I then fully made up my mind to be some one, _quand-même_. A few days after my engagement at the Comédie Française, my aunt gave a dinner party. Among her guests were the Duc de Morny, Camille Doucet, the Minister of the Beaux-Arts, M. De Walewski, Rossini, my mother, Mlle. De Brabender, and I. During the evening a great many other people came. My mother had dressed me very elegantly, and it was the first time I had worn a really low dress. Oh, how uncomfortable I was! Everyone paid me great attention. Rossini asked me to recite some poetry, and I consented willingly, glad and proud to be of some little importance. I chose Casimir Delavigne’s poem “L’âme du Purgatoire.” “That should be said with music as an accompaniment,” exclaimed Rossini, when I came to an end. Everyone approved this idea, and Walewski said: “Mademoiselle will begin again and you could improvise an accompaniment, _cher maître_.” There was great excitement, and I at once began again. Rossini improvised the most delightful harmony, which filled me with emotion. My tears flowed freely without my being conscious of them, and at the end my mother kissed me, saying: “This is the first time that you have really moved me.” As a matter of fact, she adored music, and it was Rossini’s improvisation that had moved her.